Last night, it snowed for the first time in New York all winter. It was absolutely frigid. (Note that my perception of this may be affected by the fact that I was wearing a summer dress without tights as I ran weekly errands.
Because I am an idiot with no foresight.) The sky was this incredibly dismal grey color, deep and gloomy. If a vibrant sunset is a work of art, oil on canvas, this sky was the murky, opaque water left behind after the brushes are washed between colors. It made a jarring contrast with the ivory falling fast, coating the ground with a thin layer of icy down, shockingly white in a black-and-grey landscape.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about grey areas. Not so much the uncertainty or the vagueness that the colloquialism implies, but the grey areas in which we contain ourselves, hearts heavy and heads buzzing, the moments in which our lives are so consumed by violent darkness and weariness that even the brightest moments are covered by a thin layer of ash. The greyness can be dusky, a storm cloud hanging over the sun, preventing any lightness from breaking through, or it can be leaden, like your lungs are suddenly filling with cement, you, human pavement, footprints left by those who couldn’t wait for the concrete to settle. But either way, the greyness reduces you to a silent film, the color drained from your cheeks, your eyes dull and tired. Continue reading Silver Linings Playlist: Auditory Remedies to Battle the Darkness